ChapterSeven
Ididn’t bother with a cloak or even telling Norwin that I was leaving. Once Flynn and Odile departed, I ran to the stable and begged Letti for a horse. Poet was available, so—despite my attire and the condition of my hair—I climbed astride and prepared to depart for the village.
“Miss!” Letti called. “Please, at least take this.”
She held her own cloak out to me. The garment had clearly been carefully tended to over the years. Patches lovingly reinforced the elbows which had worn thin from repeated wear, and the hem, while frayed in places, also showed signs of numerous repairs. The condition of the cloak bore witness to how dearly she treasured the item. Speckled with hay and stinking of horse, the cloak might contribute to my unkempt appearance, but it was a generous gift indeed. One I sincerely cherished.
“If you ride without covering your head at least…” Letti bit her lip. “You’ll catch your death, miss.”
“I will treat it gently and will return it as soon as I’m able.” I accepted the cloak, threw it over my shoulders and loose hair, and gave the girl a hug of heartfelt thanks.
I rode Poet as quickly as she could safely canter into the village. There I asked the stable hand for directions to the cutlery. The gentleman knew my father, and while he looked at me with frank concern on his face, he accepted Poet and agreed to add the fee to keep Poet to my family’s account.
I momentarily regretted my impulsive behavior. If I’dnotbeen known by my family’s name…what might have been my fate? I had not a penny on me. Without funds of any sort, I would have had no option to stable the mare. I realized the comfort of my position with a creeping feeling of dread. When I closely considered the many ways in which I’d acted the role of a spoiled young lady of the Lombard family, I grew deeply disappointed in myself.
Now, however, was not the moment for deep consideration of my position in life. There would be time for that once I was free of the Lombard name for good. But that would never happen if I did not have answers. Answers about the goblins and how I might find them and repair the wrecked mask. Grateful enough for the stable hand’s agreement, I rushed off into the square.
The afternoon was growing late, and already many of the shops were closing. Merchants’ carts were bare of their goods, and tired-looking people covered their heads and their stalls as they readied for their journeys home. I tried to brush bits of hay from the borrowed cloak as I hurried through the busy square, searching every sign I traveled past for Serlo’s Cutlery.
When I found the place, something in my chest released, and with a relieved sigh, I shoved through the door. The shop was busy despite the lateness of the hour. The noise inside was overwhelming, the high-pitched clinking of metals echoing through the shop. There were several fires in different hearths, and people of various ages worked bellows, sweat soaking their pulled-back hair. Red-hot instruments were dipped into buckets, the hiss of water cooling metal adding to the noise and the steaming heat of the place.
“Excuse me?” I called over the din. “Excuse me, please?”
A surly-looking man hovered over a woman who was intensely focused on placement of something against a flat bit of metal. The man lifted his chin and looked me over, then called, “You needin’ a cutler, miss? We’re a specialty shop ’ere.”
I recognized the dismissive tone in his voice as the very same one my parents used when they were addressing someone they perceived to be of inferior status. Someone without the money that we had. I rankled when they put on airs, although in this moment, when I’d just enjoyed the benefits of my parents’ “status” at the public stable, I could hardly think myself all that much different than they were. By my appearance alone, I could hardly blame the man for assuming I was in the wrong place. But the judgment in his voice provoked my rebellious spirit. No one deserved to be spoken to as though they did not matter. As though they did not deserve courteous attention—no matter their means.
I lifted my chin and raised my voice. “I have come seeking one cutler specifically, sir. Would you kindly let Syndrian Serlo know he has a visitor?”
My haughty tone did not seem to sit well with the cutler. He cocked his head at me, then bit out, “This ’ere’s a business, miss. Ain’t visiting hours. Be off with you, now.” Then, without the slightest display of interest, he returned his attention to the work he was supervising.
I might have been humble in appearance, but I was not ashamed and would not be easily dismissed. Even if I were not a Lombard, the man had no right to behave with such disinterest. What if I had a full purse and sought a skilled cutler for a job? I felt I had no choice, not only for myself but also for others in humble circumstances, but to speak up. I would not be tossed aside.
“I have business here,” I said loudly, “and will not be discouraged whether or not you provide aid.” I strode through the shop, searching for the flash of a striking ponytail. “Syndrian!” I shouted. “Syndrian Serlo, are you here?”
“Oh, fer the love o’ the gods.” The grizzled man wiped his hands on the front of a leather apron and scrubbed a hand with very dirty-looking fingers across his face. “He ain’t ’ere, girlie. Would ya just—”
Just then, a door at the back of the shop opened, and my throat went dry. A furious-looking Syndrian strode through the shop, glaring at everyone he passed. “What’s all the shoutin’ about in here, eh, Pop? Did we forget this is a respectable place of business?” He paused beside the man who just moments ago had said Syndrian wasn’t here.
“Before ya go tellin’ me how to run me own shop, ya might want to talk to this one,son.” The man’s voice was deadly low, with no trace of affection as he addressed Syndrian.
I realized with shock that the man had to be Syndrian’s father. He bore very little resemblance, though. Instead of vibrant eyes, the elder cutler’s eyes were squinty and brown…though perhaps there were a few of Syndrian’s crinkles around the corners. However, the older man’s eyes looked jaded, angry, and lacking in any humor. His hair did remind me of Flynn’s, though: long, reddish-brown, and poking out past a dingy leather cap. When the man gruffly tugged his cap from him head and raked his calloused hand through its length, I could definitely see the family resemblance.
Syndrian looked past his father to me, and his face immediately became an impassive mask. He nodded at me. “Afternoon, miss.” He turned back to the grump who owned the place. “I’m leaving,” he barked. “I’ll see you at home,Pop.”
As he wove his way through the cutlers working at various stations, he bid the workers goodbye and even clapped a few on their backs. I noticed he received warm farewells from all, but the mood in the shop had grown very tense. Stiff glances passed from father to son, as the employees seemed hesitant to arouse the anger of the elder Serlo. As if even speaking to Syndrian meant they were siding with him in a quarrel that had smoldered over many, many years.
When he approached me, Syndrian looked over my loose, messy hair and hay-stained cloak, his expression shifting into one of concern. He rushed to my side, not slowing down or greeting me. His hand was light on my elbow, his body close to mine. He led me out of the shop, throwing a look over his shoulder as we left. Once we stood outside in the square, he stopped. “Are you hurt? Are you all right?”
He searched my face and form as if expecting to find blood, but I nodded. “Syndrian, I—”
“We can’t talk here.” He peered around us, at the working people and children and carts. The steady flow of life in the village passed close by in a noisy living wave.
“I know a place,” I said quietly. “It may be available.” I squeezed my eyes shut and said a prayer to the gods that my father was truly out of town and not holed up in the cottage he kept in the village. He was rarely honest about his movements and travel itinerary, even with my mother. He could have been in Kyruna, steps away here in Omrora, or in the neighboring realm of Drammen for all anyone knew. The truth, like everything else about the Lombards, never fully aligned with what my father presented.
“Take me,” he said, his hand firm on my elbow. “Where is your horse?”
“We can walk,” I said. “I stabled the horse, but the place is close.”